Legwork
by Shadow Chaser
Summary: Legwork was always tedious and boring to Mycroft Holmes, except in the case of a chemical defect known as sentiment. Then legwork becomes far more...satisfying - perhaps a little like revenge. - Post-The Reichenbach Fall


Sherlock: Legwork

By: Shadow Chaser

**Author's Notes:**

Yes, it's another reactionary piece post-"_The Reichenbach Fall_" but with journalism bent to it. Oh, and it features a slightly BAMF!Mycroft, but not in the sense that you would think.

**Story:**

* * *

><p>Legwork was always tedious, utterly dull and something inside of him sneered just as his little brother would do whenever something did not interest him – <em>boring<em>. He hated it and it was one of the vices that he indulged in. That was why he had associates do it for him, all at his command like plucking the strings of a cello. It should not have come as a surprise to many that he was a gifted cello player, much like Sherlock and his violin, but then again the Holmes brothers were a lot closer than many thought.

Only a one, perhaps even two others, suspected the closeness and Dr. John Watson was too consumed with grief to be thinking anything at the moment. So that left the only one that he could…leverage. Use was too harsh of a word, he supposed as he sat in his armchair in front of the fireplace. Besides, his brother _used_ people, he would like to think he was above all of that and instead _leveraged_ them to do things.

The quiet ping of an alert on his phone made him pause in his musings to pull out his cell and glanced at it. A churlish smile appeared on his lips before he flipped his phone towards the other occupant sitting in the chair across from his in front of the fireplace. "It seems Dr. Watson refuses to believe your last words," he made no effort to front an apologetic tone and instead kept it neutral, like always, with just a hint of disdain. The disdain was definitely directed at the occupant, but not for reasons one might have been led to believe.

"Is that so?" Sherlock Holmes did not even pause to look up at screen that displayed John Watson's last blog post – an alert that always came through each time he posted on his blog – and instead continued to rifle through the stack of papers spilling from his lap to the armrests and down to the floor.

Mycroft grabbed one of the pieces of paper with the toe of his shoe that had been blowing a little too close to the fireplace and edged it back to the chair. He locked his phone once more and placed it back into his jacket pocket, but did not miss the minute _too quick_ pause that Sherlock had indulged in while managing to look like he had not been affected by his statement.

"Sentiment, I suppose," he continued studying his little brother.

There was no answer and Mycroft did not expect one. They both knew that Sherlock's pre-planning of his suicide was caused by sentiment, the one chemical defect that both had thrown into the face of others. That his words to John, his "note" before he stepped off the roof of St. Bart's was sentiment. That everything, _everything_, that had happened since Dr. John Watson entered Sherlock's life revolved around sentiment.

It was the one weakness both of them could never admit to having, yet both of them had indulged in, perhaps Sherlock more than his older brother. Because whereas Mycroft had only the chemical defect to truly appreciate the genius and sometimes oblivious stupidity his brother had; Sherlock had chosen that chemical defect to extend to John Watson and slowly towards others.

For the longest time that sentiment had only been shared between the two of them – snippets of fights, occasional pranks, riling each other up whenever possible – it was sentiment and apologetic at the same time.

"Don't you have a government to run?" Sherlock suddenly spoke up, his tone acerbic, biting.

Ah, sentiment again, Mycroft heard before clearly hearing the unspoken message, _"I am not going to break you idiot. And stop apologizing for realizing that you've been manipulated by Moriarty."_

"The government can run itself for a day or two," Mycroft shrugged before passing a glance over the papers and files strewn about. He caught another sheet about to be launched into the fireplace and this time shoved it firmly under leg of the leather chair that Sherlock had inclined a little bit to let him do so.

"It seems like Moran's files always want to slip away," Sherlock sighed, "boring."

"The most dangerous of all," Mycroft cautioned him.

Silence greeted him, but Mycroft saw the unseen wheels turn in his little brother's head, always filing away information, always listening when others thought he was not or was dismissive.

"I do believe this belongs to you, does it not?" Sherlock suddenly pulled out a file amongst the handful he was flipping through and handed it over to him. However, Mycroft did not take the file and met his brother's sharp-eyed gaze squarely. A small frown appeared on Sherlock's face as he retracted his hand and stared at the file. The minute widening of Sherlock's eyes told Mycroft everything.

"Ah…"

Mycroft let his brother read the file for a few minutes before watching him as he set down the pile to a small end table that was already nearly overflowing with other stacks of paper and folders. Somewhere in there was a small secure netbook, but it was probably buried amongst the folders. There was no worries, he did not need it yet and would fish it out later once their plans had been put into action.

"You did the legwork," his brother sounded smug and Mycroft smiled a little crookedly.

"Surprised?"

"Hardly," his brother allowed himself to lean back against the plush leather cushions, "but I suppose this is all part of the apology isn't it?"

"Take it for what you wish it to be," there was once a time where Mycroft knew he would have denied it, would have made some acerbic comment regarding the sentimentality of that sentence, but right now he did not care. The two of them could scan each other with just a mere glance, could trade barbs and biting comments about his yo-yo diet, about Sherlock's occasional drug use. But they could not tell about the familial duty and the _sentiment_ that bonded the two together because that was the only rule they had to live by when each of them went their separate path.

"And Riley?" Mycroft smiled mostly to himself at the hint of anger, the unspoken but delicious satisfaction of revenge, that colored his brother's words.

"Dealt with," he looked at Sherlock square in the eye, "personally."

"Legwork indeed," Sherlock affected a surprised look, but Mycroft could see genuine surprise in his brother.

"Not sentiment," he answered the unspoken question.

"Really…"

"We had known…about her contacts for a while now, through Miss Adler's phone," Mycroft watched his brother carefully. The subject of Irene Adler had never been brought up since he had spoken to John about her death in Karachi and he already knew which version Dr. Watson had told his brother. Sentiment indeed, he mused – he knew Sherlock would never truly understand the concept of love, but he understood on some level the concept of meeting someone who was able to intellectually stimulate him and the Adler woman was one of the few. Most ordinary people had read that wrong and believed that Sherlock Holmes had actually fallen in love – idiots.

"Ah, an even longer apology," Sherlock's eyes betrayed nothing and Mycroft was glad that his little brother had moved on. He shifted a little, "Where is she now?"

"Dead," he shrugged, "Lestrade will discover the body in about...two hours I would think."

"Standard mugging?"

"Yes. Smearing your name a little more because of her articles – some would call it your last…hit…I suppose. But her finger prints should tell Lestrade everything," he shifted a little in his seat, "Interpol keeps some interesting records about a one supposed Miss Kitty Riley."

"It's about time Interpol did something useful," Sherlock snorted gently.

"They do have their uses," Mycroft had found the records buried beneath layers and layers of red tape at Interpol and had to call in a couple of favors to bypass those of Moriarty's lingering network that still worked at Interpol. He still did not have the heart to tell Sherlock that Moriarty was still alive through his Interpol connections, though he suspected that his brother knew.

They fell into silence for a few minutes, the crackling of the fireplace their only companion before Mycroft steeple his fingers and glanced down at the trapped paper that was part of the file on Sebastian Moran, the sniper assigned to kill Dr. Watson. "Leave Moran for the last," he spoke up.

"Because revenge would be that much sweeter? No," Sherlock had a slight impish grin on his face, "because of his wife? Mary Morstan?"

"When you talk to her, you will know why," was all Mycroft was willing to give to his little brother. He still liked to keep up the pretense of having a sibling rivalry.

"Legwork then," Sherlock stood up straightening his jacket before walking the few steps to where a cello case always sat in the corner of the room. Mycroft heard him take the instrument out before accepting it without looking up. A few scuffling sounds later, he heard his brother sit back down.

"Legwork," he replied before settling himself against his cello and began to play, joined almost instantaneously by the melodic sound of Sherlock's violin. Sentiment indeed…sentiment and legwork.

~END~

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

I've always liked the relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft in the series and thought that there could have been just a little more than disdain and childish comments thrown between the two brothers. My favorite episode was actually "_A Scandal in Belgravia_" where Mycroft epically rips into Sherlock and then apologizes afterwards for pushing him in that direction. There was something about that apology that sparked me into thinking that the two maybe weren't so distant to each other. The scene where Mycroft attempts to apologize to John about screwing up by telling Moriarty all about Sherlock piqued my interest some more and here is the result. I kind of want to write a follow-up regarding Lestrade and after he finds Kitty Riley's body…dunno though.

For the record, I am a journalist, so "_The Reichenbach Fall_" episode just didn't quite sit too well with me, especially with a journalist like Kitty Riley. It kind of makes me want to bash her into a wall for her lack of journalistic integrity (maybe like what Mycroft did – tee hee).


End file.
